See No Evil
by Ryder85
Summary: An ordinary day for Trip Tucker ends with extenuating circumstances. First POV. Please read and review. Fourth Chapter: Trip's detention in sickbay ends.
1. Chapter One

A/N; This is another idea that popped into my head while I was working on my other stuff. I'm writing it concurrently with the others and have every intention of finishing everything. I wanted to experiment with first person point of view, and this is the result. Please read and review; I've never written anything like this and I want to know if it jives.

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The alarm blares above my head; without a second glance I reach up and switch it off. Most days the inspirational power chords of the theme song to the wildly popular twenty-first century Star Wars provides me with just the right amount of motivation to get myself out of bed on limited hours of sleep. Most days I like to compare myself to Luke Skywalker, as ridiculous and juvenile as that may seem. But some of the similarites are uncanny. We are both ex-small town boys, thrown into extraordinary circumstances we could've only dreamed of as children. We're both involved in trans-space battles much bigger than ourselves, persuaded into joining by the murder of a family member.

Today, though, instead of providing me with the inspiration I desperately need, the now familiar tune only serves to remind me that I'm _not _Luke Skywalker. I don't have the Force working with me anytime I need to do any heavy lifting. If I want to know what T'Pol is thinking when she sends me those damn unreadable looks across the bridge, I have to rely on my less than reliable ability to read Vulcan body language. Today, the theme song to the movie about the man I idolized as a child shifts me into a pissy mood before I've even left my quarters.

I can't blame my poor desposition entirely on a song, though. Repairs to the Enterprise have been keeping my entire department busy, and unfortunately, the spare pips on my uniform do not exempt me from the menial tasks. Lack of stimulation to my wildly imaginitive brain had led to incredibly vivid nightmares of death and destruction raining down from the sky. Time that could've been more productively used doing nearly anything else, I had spent lying in a puddle of sweat, shaking with adrenaline and trying to forget the images that seemed to have seared themselves onto the back of my eyelids.

I sit up slowly, running a hand through pillow flattened hair. It's Monday morning, which means a Command Meeting on the bridge in twenty minutes. I don't want to go; going over the recent hum-drum repairs to the ship is not my idea of a good start to the week. I could send my second-in-command, but having Hess show up instead of me might raise more questions than if I did make an appearance, albeit a little worse for wear.

I decide against a shower, and simply pull on yesterday's uniform over the Starfleet issue underwear I had fallen asleep wearing. It's hardly hygenic, but somewhere along the way I had lost my desire to slip into a freshly pressed recently laundered uniform every morning. I stick my head in the lav long enough to make sure I'm somewhat presentable. My hair is short enough that it doesn't need to be combed; I haven't shaved in two days but I've never been heavily endowed in the facial hair department, so it just looks like a five o'clock shadow.

I leave my quarters just as Malcolm is passing by in the corridor; he pauses long enough to cast me an odd look before I fall into step next to him. "Good morning, Commander. Rough night?"

I shoot him a look that hopefully tells him my nighttime habits, or lack thereof, are not up for discussion. "It was fine. How 'bout you, Lieutenant? How's the armoury holding up?"

He shruggs, an action that up until a year and a half ago, I wouldn't have thought him capable of. "Aft phase cannons are still offline, but the repairs to the forward photon torpedo tubes are almost complete. We should be bristling for battle by the end of the shift."

He sounds incredibley upbeat for a man that, like me, has been pushed to indecent lengths the past couple of days, and in that instant, I hate him. It doesn't last long, though, and by the time we reach the lift at the end of the corridor the brief hate born of jealousy is replaced by a grudging respect. He's good at his job, but I don't tell him; he knows.

I lean heavily against the lift walls, and allow Malcolm to program our destination into the controls. Nothing is said during the brief ride up four decks to the bridge, as if my companion suddenly interpreted my unspoken request for silence. I'm aware of him watching me as the doors to the lift open up on the bridge, but don't respond to it, because I suddenly realize that we are the last to arrive. Hoshi, Travis, T'Pol, and Captain Archer are all standing around the tactics console, and as we step out onto the deck plating all four pairs of eyes focus on us.

Malcolm apologizes for our tardiness as we take up our places around the table, and I somehow manage to not point out to him that at 0755, we are not late for the meeting at 0800. Captain Archer seems to realize this, and waves off Malcolm's apology with a hand. He glances cautiously at me out of the corner of his eye before asking Hoshi to begin.

She starts by updating everyone on the changes in function she's made to the universal translator. She approached me late last week with the possible modifications, and after telling her to run with it, I assigned two of my people to assist her. It's nice to see that everything worked out the way she hoped it would, but it's even nicer to see the reddish glow in her cheeks when the Captain acknowledges her hard work, and praises her for it.

Hoshi finishes, and after a nod from Captain Archer, Malcolm's clipped accented tone fills the void. I drown out his words; even without the update he gave me this morning, I know how repairs in Malcolm's department are going. Our sections overlap sometimes, so we're always aware of what the other is doing. I don't need to hear it all again to know that the port cannon assembly is giving them trouble.

I can feel T'Pol's gaze on my face as I stare down vaguely at the pad in my hands. I imagine her eyes burning holes in my skin, and wonder if it would hurt the same. It's been a week since she effectively told me to buzz off, though in much more diplomatic terms. I'm quite positive it's partly due to the lack of neuropressure that the nightmares have come back _en force_, but under threat of death I would not confess that to her. As a result of growing up in a large family, I know when I'm not wanted. Besides, I hate the fact that I grew to rely on those sessions to get me through the days. Spending an hour with T'Pol every night became the light at the end of my tunnel. When repairs and modifications and upgrades added up to be too much, I could always look forward to that hour in her quarters. I wonder if she realizes how much it all meant to me when she told me to-

"Commander Tucker!"

My chin jerks up at the sound, and I meet Captain Archer's gaze, a small side helping of concern flashing in his brown eyes to go with the main course of annoyance written all over his face. I clear my throat uncomfortably, and squawk out, "yessir?"

He sighs, in perfect imitation of my father when he was pushed to the limits of his patience, by me. That comparison frightens me for a moment, and rather than risk annoying my Captain any further, I resolve to ponder over that thought later in the day. "I was just asking about Engineering. If you could try to stay with us, Commander, I'd like to know how the repairs are coming."

Embarrassment colours my cheeks. It's not the first time I've zoned out during a Command Meeting, and it's doubtful to be the last. But disappointing the Captain, even in such a small capacity as this, always cuts right to the core. I quickly run through all the major tasks my crew and I have been getting into, and it doesn't take long. Most of the items on my to-do list consist of stuck doors and leaky faucets. What I wouldn't give to have the plasma relays fuse together...

I finished reading off the litany of odd jobs, and the Captain ends the meeting with little fanfare. But of course, not before asking to speak to me in his office. Alone. I sigh. I know I'm in for it; as fair as Captain Archer is about pretty much everything, he doesn't take well to his senior officers dozing through his command meetings. He's been pretty easy on me in the past, but I'm never sure if this is the time he's really going to come down hard. I share a knowing glance with Malcolm before following the Captain across the bridge.

He takes a seat behind his desk, and motions me to do the same in the chair opposite him. He takes a sip from the coffee cup I have yet to see leave his hand this morning as I get comfortable. My seat is a little over two inches shorter than his; it's one of those little tricks Starfleet can't help but employ to better create the feel of disparity among ranks. The general feeling is that the appearance of a Captain looming over an officer is an effective means of establishing a sense of superiority. They don't realize that these back handed tricks aren't needed with Captain Archer. First of all, the crew respects him because he earned it, not because he's taller than they are. Second, he would tower over me if he was sitting on the floor, and I was the one in the high chair.

He sets his mug down on his desk, looks up at me, and I'll be damned if that hint of concern isn't back in his eyes. "What's going on with you, Trip?"

I know exactly what he's talking about, but I don't let him know that. I learned long ago that not only is ignorance bliss, it's also an effective shielding measure. "What do you mean, Cap'n?"

He sends me a deadpanned look that tells me he sees right through my feigned denseness. "Don't jerk me around, Commander. You know exactly what I mean. You look like hell."

By some miracle of certainly divine intervention, I manage not to scowl at his words. So he's pulling out the big guns. By reminding me of my lower rank, and being blunt bordering on rude, he lets me know in no uncertain terms that he's a Captain, and I am not.

I stare at the desk top in front of me, and somehow reel in the urge to drum my fingertips on it's surface. "I, uh, didn't sleep well last night. Y'know, with the repairs and all."

The Captain nodds knowingly. He knows that lack of mental stimulation makes me crazy, in simple terms. It's why he tries to make sure I'm on away missions taking place during slow times, and why he mostly excuses the prank wars that plague Engineering every couple of months.

"Are you sure that's it?"

His question surprises me, and I can feel my eyebrows raising in astonishment. I wonder briefly if being psychic is a requirement for a commanding officer, but quickly dismiss the thought. He's the first Captain I've served under that's been able to read me so well.

I don't tell him the truth. He doesn't need to know, he might worry. And when Captain Archer worries, it generally tends to involve Doctor Phlox, and his favourite little hypospray. As much as I would appreciate twelve hours of restful sleep, I do not like to be under the influence of his drugs. So I steel my surprise behind my best poker face, and nodd stiffly. "Yeah, Cap'n. That's all it is."

He looks me over carefully for a few seconds, then nodds himself, in the way that signifies he's made up his mind to believe me. "Why don't you put in a half day today, Trip? Take in a good meal in the mess hall, then get yourself into bed."

The thought of returning to the Land of the Nightmares immediately puts me on edge, but still I agree with him rather readily. I can still get a lot of work done while remaining out of sight. I wait until he dissmisses me, then I get the hell out of there, after promising that he won't see me for the next twelve hours. I don't take offense; it's his way of letting me know he's worried, and I'll be the subject of his careful scrutiny until he comes to the conclusion that I'm all right.

I spend a few minutes longer on the bridge, quietly discussing solutions to the problems Malcolm finds his team facing, before excusing myself and scurrying back to engineering. Unless there's something extraordinary going on, time spent on the bridge during a lull in the action can sometimes be as painful as pulling teeth without anastethic.

Down in Engineering, I hunt down my SIC and get an update on what's happened in my absence. I sign off on her pad, officially relieving her of duty for the next twelve hours, and send her on her way. She goes happily, without a fight, obviously enamoured with the idea of twelve hours of uninterupted Hess-time.

I scroll down the pad she had handed me, select a job at random, and set to work on crossing it off on my list. Sure, replacing plasma conduits wasn't the most glamerous, or challenging task on board the ship, but it had to be better than whatever it was the bridge crew was up to. I begin with gusto, partly content to have something to occupy my hands, but at the same time disheartened that it was something as instinctual as removing conduits. Very little brain work involved in the process. About twenty minutes and halfway through my job, a quiet and decidedly feminine voice speaks up at my elbow. "Commander Tucker?"

I switch off the plasma torch, and turn around. Ensign Sato stands before me, a surprise but certainly welcome visitor to Engineering. She looks worried, guilty, almost, and when combined with the fact that I had seen her not thirty minutes ago, I'm certain I'm not going to like what she has to say.

"What can I do for you, Ensign?"

She glances down at her hands, and that's when I notice the data ship she has clenched in between her fingers. She looks up and stares me right in the eye, and I swear I can see tears gathering in the corners of her eyes.

"Um, sir, I don't know quite how to say this." I want to tell her to get on with it, but before I can, she says, "When I was running through those modifications to the UT, I found something waiting in the queues."

I don't yet realize the connection this has with me. Whenever a communication is received by the ship, it waits in a storage file, or a queue, until one of the communications people sorts it into the proper mailbox. It may seem like a slightly cumbersome procedure, but on the whole, it makes scanning for incoming viruses much easier.

She holds out a hand, the data chip is nestled comfortably in her palm. "I'm really sorry, sir. I don't know how this could've happened."

Before reaching out and taking the chip, I send it a suspicious look. "It's for me? Who's it from?"

If at all possible, she seems to grow even more agitated. Her chin drops to her chest. "It's...it's from your sister, sir. Elizabeth."

The plasma torch slips from my suddenly lax grasp, but I only barely register the loud, resulting clatter as background noise. A message from my baby sister, my sister whose been dead for ten months now. It's like...it's like she's speaking to me from beyond the grave. I shake that thought off as quickly as it manifests, and snatch the chip from her hand. Some words pour out of my mouth, and I at least have the presence of mind to hope it's thanks. I leave the torch where it fell on the floor, and hurry with the chip to my office in the corner opposite the warp engine. My quarters seems like a better idea to play this message, what with the added privacy, but I know I can't wait to read it. Butterflies have appeared in my stomach, and my hand trembles as I lock the door behind me.

I flop down in my chair, and without further ado, slip the chip into my computer terminal. The Starfleet insignia appears on the screen, displaying the date and time the transmission was recieved. Squinting, I recognize the date as about two weeks before the attack, and my heart twists painfully in my chest. I instruct the computer to play the message, and lean forward in my chair, resting my elbows on the desktop.

Elizabeth's smiling face fills the screen, and suddenly there's inexplicable tears in my eyes. I blink them back, and reach out to trail a finger down the long line of her hair as she smiles at me. "Hi Big Brother!" The recording fails to capture the sheer presence she possesses in personal conversations, but I find myself grinning nonetheless.

After giving me a brief gossip refresher course in the comings and goings of our family, and her friends, she goes on to tell me tell me about her post graduate work in her chosen field of architecture. She holds up a blueprint off the building she had a hand in designing, and this time the computer does an adequate job of relaying her obvious pride. She tells me that she misses me, that when she looks up at the stars at night she imagines she can see Enterprise zooming across the sky, taking me on adventure after adventure. She smirks a little at this last part; she was the only family member I had told about my pregnancy, but she never fails to get in a jab when she feels it's appropriate. Her attitude sobers up quickly, and she makes me promise, albeit a little one sidedly, to be safe. The last time she made me promise this, I dragged Malcolm over to the terminal, and made him run through his updated security procedure. Back then, a conversation with Malcolm allayed her fears, but now that memory doesn't seem to do the trick. She tells me that my other siblings, and parental units send their love, and that they all wait to hear back from me. Then, with one last kiss to the camera, she's gone. Her images winks out, and the terminal spits the chip back at me.

For a long minute I simply sit there, staring at the blackened screen and imagining I can still see her face there. The pain in my chest becomes too much, and I drop my head to the table top. She's amazing. Was amazing. So loving and incredible and full of life. And now I'm not even sure where she is, if her ashes were cast away in the breeze that followed the attack, or if one day her body will be found, one of the unfortunate victims that were only a metre too close to the energy beam to survive. I don't know if she was vapourized in seconds, or trapped under a building in an air pocket, waiting to be rescued until she starved to death, or crushed under the tons of building materials that collapsed in the aftershock. The uncertainty kills me. I know now that I couldn't have prevented her death, even if I had been there with her, but it doesn't stop me from wishing she didn't suffer. It's bad enough she had to die, but imagining her alone in the throes of agony, wondering which breath will be her last...

"Rostov to Commander Tucker."

I raise my head slowly, glaring at the intercom and wondering if Ensign Rostov has the best timing in the world, or the worst. I swipe a hand across my face, mopping up the stray tears, and reach out to press the button with a finger that only trembles slightly. "What is it, Ensign?"

"We're having a little trouble with the manifold assembly, sir. Do you think you could give us a hand?"

I can fake a normal tone well enough, but removing this scowl from my face would require non-recommended doses of Phlox's favourite little hypospray. I depress the button again. "Gimme a minute, and I'll be right out."

He acknowledges, and my office once again falls into an uneasy silence. The chip remains in the dataport; I reach out with careful fingers and pull it out. The now near-holy data chip takes up residence in one of my uniforms zippered pockets, incidentally the one over my heart.

I stand slowly, take another minute to scrub at my face with both hands, then unlock my door and head out.

The first thing I notice is someone on my team has finished with the conduit I had been replacing. I make a mental note to thank whoever it was when I send out the weekly schedule on Friday, and weave my way over to wear Rostov stands with Crewman Agar. They both nodd at me, then Rostov gives me a quick rundown of what's giving them trouble, and what he suspects the problem is. I encourage free thinking in my crew; if ever they hit a road block, I don't mind giving them a hand, but I expect to know why they need it, and what they think will fix it. Rostov's explanation is mostly right, but I know that to make it really stick, I will have to demonstrate.

I hold a hand out, requesting their requisitioned plasma torch. It seems to be my tool of choice for the day, and I consider briefly carrying one around on my belt from now on. I quickly check the settings, then fire up the torch, pleased as punch at the dark blue flame that erupts from the tip. I glance at Rostov and Agar, making sure they're watching as closely as I know they are, then set to work.

I kneel before the manifold, gently touching the torch to the warped metal. A tiny display of pyrotechnics erupts at the contact. Rostov's saying something to me, shouting in an attempt to be heard over the screaming metal, but I don't stop. I glance down at the torch controls, using my thumb to increase the size of the flame when the manifold proves more resistant than I thought. Rostov is even more insistent now, resorting to tugging on my arm to gain my attention. I turn my head to glance at him but there's a great burning heat in my hand. I whip back around to the torch, when suddenly a white hot flash fills my vision. I'm overwhelmed by the sense of weightlessness, then the darkness that had been chasing me for the past ten months catches up, and swallows me whole.

...to be continued...


	2. Chapter Two

A/N: Here's the next installment, hope you guys enjoy it. I want to thank you for the reviews, with a special shout out to RoaringMice. Your perceptions of Lizzie's message were exactly what I was hoping to convey, and I'm delighted you picked up on it. I have freakishly high levels of self doubt when it comes to my writing, so I'm glad that you all have found an interest in this piece. I have big plans for it, so please stay tuned!

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"...gonna be okay?"

"...severe concussion...third degree burns..."

"What the hell..."

"Rostov said...overloaded plasma torch...no safety equipment..."

Bits of disjointed sentences penetrate the darkness, familiar tones but in a previously unknown context. Using the voices as an anchor, I fight through the blackness to reach them, but there seem to be unimaginable forces holding me back. There is no pain, but a heavy weight is smothering my body, making breathing difficult and moving nigh on impossible. I feel the cold kiss of a hypospray against my neck, and then the darkness in my mind recedes as quickly as it enveloped me. But the physical blackness remains.

"...Tucker, can you hear me?"

I open my mouth to reply in the affirmative, but there are no words, only a long, steady croak from reluctant vocal chords. I try to sit up, to raise an arm and remove whatever it is covering my eyes, but a pair of hands land on my shoulders, and gently push me back down.

"Commander, drink some of this liquid. It will help your throat."

The cool metal rim of some kind of mug touches my lips, and I open my mouth instinctly. The liquid tastes bitter, and I make a face as it invades my senses. But the doctor is right; words come easily when I say, "what the hell happened?"

A voice speaks up on my right side, one that I immediately recognize as Captain Archer's. "There was an accident in Engineering, Trip. The plasma torch you were using overloaded. You're in sickbay."

He didn't need to tell me that last bit; I've spent so many nights in this place since the mission started that the smell of antiseptics mixed with Phlox's managerie could reach me in a coma. But a plasma torch overloading? That part surprises me. Those torches have safety features to prevent something like that from happening.

"Well, is everything allright? Was anyone hurt? How're the engines?"

I've known the Captain long enough to hear the smile on his lips. "Engines are fine. T'Pol's been working with your team, making sure there's no damage besides the obvious. And you were the only injury. Rostov took minor burns to both his hands from when he tried to help you, but he's already healed and gone."

Now that doesn't sound right. I know from personal experience that even with healing aided by one of Phlox's creatures, burns are tricky things to get rid of. But the inconsistency of that statement suddenly takes a backseat to the fact that Phlox still hasn't taken these _damn _bandages off my eyes. I try to reach up again, but a hand snags my wrist and stills my movement with little difficulty. "Look, doc, would you take whatever it is covering my goddam eyes off! I can't stand not seein' you guys when I'm talkin' to you."

I hear my accent thickening just slightly, as it always does for some reason whenever heightened emotions come into play. But I don't have time to think about that anymore as the whole of sickbay has gone incredibly quiet. The silence is uncomfortable, awkward. It seems as though even Phlox's animals have halted in their movements and vocalizations. I realize that I don't like the implications of that.

"Trip, listen to me." It's the Captain again, and he's speaking close to me, right next to my ear, in fact. I can feel his breath hot on my cheek; he smells like coffee. "You suffered a severe concussion when the torch went off. Your head bounced off the deck plating pretty hard. Phlox says a side effect of that kind of injury is..." He takes a pause, laying a hand on my shoulder and squeezing gently, and suddenly I'm terrified, possibly more scared than I've been on this ship yet.

"You are quite lucky, Commander." Phlox picks up the conversation, though if it's because the Captain is unwilling to continue, or unable to, I'm not sure. "The damage is not nearly as extensive as it could have been. Should have been. You suffered third degree burns to your hands, two broken ribs on your right side, and multiple minor contusions and lacerations to the rest of your body." He also stops, and as an effect of my fear, I become angry rather quickly.

"There's obviously something you're not telling me. Would you just spit it the hell out?"

He makes a breathy kind of noise I recognize as a sigh, then says, "as the Captain was telling you, you have also suffered a fairly severe concussion. A side effect of your particular injury is blindness."

The room falls silent once more, and it's as if everyone is holding their breath while waiting for my reaction. I reach up to my face again, and this time there is nothing to stop me; that in itself says something. There's a small piece of gauze taped to my right cheek; if I press hard enough, I can feel a tenderness that would indicate a pretty deep cut. My fingertips travel further up my face, and I startle myself by poking myself right in the eye. There's nothing covering them, they're not taped shut. My baby blues are wide open, but my world remains as dark as if the ship's power had been cut.

My hand falls back to my side, and someone threads their fingers through mine. Captain Archer speaks up again. "Phlox assures me it's only temporary, Trip. Your sight should be back inside a week, right Doctor?"

Phlox picks up the cue, and starts speaking again, something about a sort of brain damage, and needing time to heal. I don't really absorb anything of it, because my mind is still trying to wrap around the concept that I'm _blind._ It doesn't really matter that it's _supposed _to be temporary. Phlox is not the be all end all of the universe; he had been known to be wrong in the past, despite his variety of high tech medical equipment. What if he's wrong this time? What if this condition isn't temporary? What if-

All thought processes come screaming to a halt as something occurs to me. I'm not wearing my uniform anymore, though that's hardly a surprise.

I reach out awkwardly, manage to grab onto the Captain's arm. "Where's my uniform? I need it."

When no answer is forthcoming, and I can detect no movement or sound beyond my own ragged breathing, I tighten my grip. It's not easy; the muscles are stiff and the skin feels too tight, but I don't care. "Cap'n, I need that uniform. The one that I was wearing when the damn torch went off. Please, it's really important." My voice is rising in hysteria, but I don't spare the thought it would take to relax myself.

There's another short pause, and I can just picture the two of them exchanging glances over my bed. Finally Captain Archer pries my fingers off his arm, and I hear him move away. There's a rustling sound to my left, Phlox's side, but when he speaks up again he's on the right.

"Commander, you need to remain calm. Overexciting yourself at this point will do nothing but harm."

"I'm _not _overexciting myself. I just want my fucking uniform. Is that so damn difficult?" I start to sit up again, and this time make it most of the way before a weight settles across my chest, gently pushing my back down.

"Commander, please. You need to calm down."

"God_damm_it! I want my uniform! Get me my fucking uniform!" I'm being unreasonable, and I know it. But they don't understand how _goddam_ frustrating it is to be told suh a huge piece of information, then be denied something as simple as an article of clothing. I fight against the weight on my chest; if I can just get out of this bed, then maybe I can find what I so desperately need.

A hand settles on my forehead, presses down, and I feel something cold touch my neck on Phlox's side. Tears of frustration overload my sightless eyes and spill down my cheeks. "No. Don't do this. I need that uniform, Jon, please. Do this for me..." I trail off because the medication is having a fast effect, and my whispered words soon dwindle into nothing as consciousness fades.

* * *

I begin to panic before fully regaining awareness; there is something truly horrifying about waking to find that even though your eyes are wide open, your world remains as dark as if it were still curtained by your eyelids. My other senses dull, as slowly the only thing that matters to me is the fact that _I can't see._ It takes a full minute of near hyperventilating before I finally register to the fact that someone is speaking to me. Low, accented tones right behind my ear, anchoring me to reality despite the fact that I couldn't see it. It's another several minutes before I can catch my breath well enough to speak.

"Malcolm." It comes out as more of a sigh than I would've liked, but considering the situation it's more than enough to get his attention.

He halts his soothing speech immediately, and I hear the creak of his chair as he presumably settles back into it.

"Trip, are you alright?"

I take a minute before answering. It's such a damn loaded question. Physically, I feel fine. But as long as I have to check with my fingers to make sure my damn eyes are open...

"I'm...I'm okay. I just...panicked a little bit, y'know." My voice sounds infinitely better than it did earlier, but it still comes out as more of a croak than is strictly considered healthy.

"That's completely understandable." A slightly awkward silence falls over us; in the background I can hear someone, probably Phlox, or Ensign Cutler, milling around in the back room. I frown to myself, thinking back to my last waking thoughts.

"They knocked me out." When Malcolm doesn't respond, I continue without provocation. "They knocked me out, because I wanted my uniform."

"The doctor says your heartrate was rising too quickly. He was afraid it would be detrimental to your health. He had to do it, Trip."

I scoff, mostly because I know he's right and don't like having the right to complain taken from me. I know Phlox only ever does things for the good of his patients, but that doesn't really give me any piece of mind. Especially when apparently, there's nothing he can do for _me_.

"Why did you want your uniform so badly? What's so important about it?"

His tone sounds overly casual, and I wonder briefly if he's up to something before saying, "Nothing. I just want it, all right?"

There's no answer for a long few minutes, then he picks up my hand where it's resting ontop of the sheets. He turns it over, and presses a small, smooth rectangle, feels like plastic, into my palm. I frown as he lets go, fingering the plastic carefully. My jaw slowly drops open as I realize just what it is I'm holding in my hand. "I don't get it. How did you know?"

He's obviously pleased with himself; I can hear the smile on his lips when he says, "I talked to some people. Hoshi told me about the datachip she passed on, and Rostov said you weren't yourself when you went over to help him. I put two and two together, and luckily, came up with four."

I fear the resulting grin that spreads across my face will crack my head in half. My hand tightens reflexively on the datachip; thanks to Malcolm, I haven't lost the last link to my dead baby sister. I open my mouth to thank him, even though I'm not quite sure the words exist. In the large scheme of things, we haven't really been friends that long, but what he just did for me went above and beyond the call of duty.

He saves me from my own reprehensible inability to put my thoughts to words, and simply pats my arm gently. "It's alright, Trip. Don't worry about it."

I feel rather than hear him stand, and he wipes something soft across my cheeks. I realize then that I've been crying; silent tears of relief rolling down my cheeks. I want to apologize for this display of emotion that generally makes Malcolm nothing but uncomfortable, but my throat is kinda closed up, and I fear trying to speak now will only make things worse. He's surprised me in these last few minutes, showing a thoughtfullness I wasn't aware he possessed.

I hear footsteps approaching the bed, then a bright, disgustingly jovial voice says, "Well, now, Commander. How are you feeling this morning?"

I sniff noisily, and shrug, as difficult as it is when laying down. "I'm still blind. Why don't you figure it out?"

A hand lands on my shoulder, probably a warning from Malcolm not to provoke the being in charge of my being released. Lord knows he's enough of an expert on the subject. But I don't care. The pain medication is starting to wear off, and I'm a lot more worried about this damn blindness than I've given them reason to believe. At the moment, the doctor is the only logical choice to be an outlet for my anger and frustration. Anyways, I still haven't forgiven him for sedating me.

I feel his warm touch on my face; he peels back the bandage on my cheek and pokes at the wound beneath. "As I told you earlier, Commander, your condition is not likely to disappear over night. The human brain is a complex organism, and it needs time to heal."

The bandage is smoothed back down, and he makes a pleased noise from the back of his throat. "Do you feel any pain?"

I ponder the question for a second, then decide that to lie to the good doctor, or to reply with anything but politeness would probably only hurt me in the long run. With the least painful of my hands, I motion to the right side of the torso, where the dull ache is beginning to develop into something fiercer. He gently lifts my hands out of the way, then folds down the sheets to take a better look. I hear a sharp intake of breath from Malcolm, and that worries me more than he'll ever know. The man has incredible pain thresholds; my side must look pretty horrible to surprise him.

Phlox prods gently at the pain centre, and I flinch away, hissing in response. "It appears as though the contusions resulting from your broken ribs might be a little more severe than I anticipated. I'll give you a little something for the pain."

There's the general sounds of his preparing, then the cold head of a hypospray is pressed against my neck. The medication takes effect immediately, and any semblance of pain I had known suddenly melts away. I breath a noisy sigh of relief, and someone chuckles, pats my shoulder softly.

Beyond my bed, I can hear what I'm pretty sure is the doors to sickbay slide open, then a pair of footsteps nearing my little bubble cautiously.

"Ah, good afternoon, Captain Archer." Phlox speaks in an overly friendly voice; I'm almost positive his greeting was more for my sake than anything else. I hear the Captain stop at the the end of the bed, and he taps the sole of my foot with his finger.

"How are you feeling, Trip?"

Malcolm breaks in then, probably afraid I'll snap at the Captain and get myself written up. "He just got another shot of pain medication."

Captain Archer makes a sound deep in his throat, then I feel the bed dip gently as I assume he sits next to my feet. He lays a hand on my right shin, and I find that unspeakably odd. We've been friends for nearly ten years, but he's never really been physically expressive. An occasional slap on the back, or hand shake for a job well done, but that was it. I think he's touched me more in the past two hours than he has in the last ten years. I file that away to wonder about later.

"How're my engines, Cap'n?" I can sense he's about to say something, and being quite sure I won't like it, I try to head him off at the pass. He sighes, squeezes my calf. "They're fine, Trip. Lieutenant Hess is taking good care of them."

I nodd. I'm sure that she is; if I had to pick my replacement I'm pretty sure it would be Hess. She thinks enough like me that I feel comfortable leaving her in charge.

A delicate silence falls over our little group, and I know without having to look that I'm the centre of attention. I've always liked to have all eyes on me, but not like this. Never like this. It's patronizing, and uncomfortable, and I hate it.

"So doc, when can I get out of here?"

"You sure that's a good idea, Trip?"

I'm sure my sharp look would be infinitely more effective if I knew where to direct it. I try to reason with myself. The Captain can't possibly understand, he's just trying to look out for me. But he can't possibly know that even after a mere couple of hours away from the engine room, I'm already feeling out of the loop. Add that to the fact that I don't when I'll be able to return, and I'm feeling pretty antsy. "I'm sure that I don't want to spend the whole week in this bed. There's no reason for me to stick around, is there, doc?"

He hesitates for a moment, then says, "I would like to keep you under observation for another twelve hours. Your concussion was fairly severe. After that, you're free to go. Although, for obvious reasons, you will not be allowed to return to duty."

I snort, but somehow manage to keep my sarcastic retort to myself.

The Captain asks to speak with Malcolm; after a brief pat on the arm, they're both gone, leaving me alone with the good doctor. At least, I think. I obviously can't see him, and he hasn't made his presence known otherwise.

I settle back against my pillow, and sigh softly. The datachip feels heavy in my bandaged hand; I flip it through my fingers rythmically. The gravity of the situation hasn't failed to reach me. I know that permanent blindness would be a career ender for even the best of engineers; what good is a sightless Commander in Starfleet? I don't know how long they would give me to heal before asking me to resign my commission, but I wasn't about to jinx my luck and ask, either.

"Commander, that is quite an astonishing skill you have."

The sudden voice next to my bed startles me, and I jump. I'd forgotten Phlox was probably there, he'd been so quiet these past couple of minutes. The datachip stills in my hand. "Yeah, it's a neat little trick my first instructor in Starfleet taught me. Great for manual dexterity."

He's quiet for a long minute, possibly waiting for me to start again. I don't indulge him. After a time, I feel his hand on my shoulder.

"If you'll excuse me, Commander, there are a number of things requiring my attention. If you need anything, I'll be within earshot."

I nodd absently, and hear him move off soon after. Sickbay falls into silence. It occurs to me then that I've never felt so alone.

...tbc...

* * *

A/N: So he's blind. Did that surprise anyone? Or am Ias transparent as I think I am? I have rather ambitious ideas for this plot, and as pathetic as it sounds, I already have the beginning for a sequel written. I just love the idea of a self-sufficient guy like Trip being made so helpless.

I've also thought that a story written entirely from a blind man's perspective might be a little dull, so I've been playing with the idea of writing a few chapters from other characters points of view. Let me know what you guys think.


	3. Chapter Three

A/N: Many thanks for all the positive reviews, I really appreciate everyone's feedback. I'd like to especially thank Rinne for a wicked beta job. And I've got to apologize for the length of this chapter. It's pretty short, but it's also pretty heavy so I think it balances out. As usual, let me know what you think.

* * *

Hoshi and Travis come to visit me not long after Captain Archer took Malcolm away. I feel the bed dip slightly under Hoshi's weight, Travis' hand pressing down on my shoulder. I haven't spoken since Doctor Phlox left me to my own devices over an hour ago, and the company is a relief.

"How're you doing, Commander?"

I really do appreciate them coming to see me, even if they do bring stupid, pointless questions with them. I somehow manage to pull a smile out of the depths of my bad mood, and say, "I'm okay, Travis."

"There's practically a line forming in the corridor. Everyone wants to visit you, but Phlox says you have to take it easy."

I nod, but don't know quite what to say. I'm pretty sure that the one person I would benefit from speaking with is going to be the one who stays away. But at the same time I'm not positive I want her to see me this way. Lord knows I seem helpless enough in her eyes. I sigh softly, forcing my thoughts away from my inner monologue, and refocusing on my visitors.

"How's everything on the bridge?"

There's a moment of brief hesitation before Travis answers, "Pretty routine. T'Pol's taking some scans of a nearby star cluster, so it's pretty quiet. That's why she can't come see you yet." He says the last bit almost as an afterthought, as though what I might think of his words only occurred to him after he'd said them. I'm instantly on guard. Nobody ever excused T'Pol's behaviour to me, why would Travis start now? His explanation is lacking detail too. There was a time when he would've described every star that passed by the viewscreen; it seems as though he's trying to keep my mind off work. I wonder if he's doing this under his own perogative, or if there are greater forces at work.

I'm at a loss for what to say next. I'm painfully aware of the fact that the only reason they're visiting me at all is that the news of my blindness has made its way to them on the bridge. Otherwise, they would've waited until I was released to see me. If news travelled all the way to the bridge already, it was reasonable to assume most of the ship knew as well. I wonder idly who it was who leaked the information, and what exactly their intentions were when they did it.

"I brought you something, Commander." Luckily Hoshi speaks up into the silence, and I feel the cool plastic of a data PADD pushed into my hand. "I downloaded some music from the database that Travis and I thought you might like. I know it gets pretty dull in here when nothing's going on, I thought it might make the time go by faster."

I drudge up another grateful smile, though gratitude is hardly what I'm feeling. I know Hoshi is trying to be considerate, and that her intentions are good, but I can't help but feel an irrational rousing of anger at the gesture. If she understood anything about the way my mind works, than she would know that spending a week waiting for something as fundamental as my _sight _to return was going to be hell, with or without a data PADD of music at my disposal. It was going to be a week without work, with largely little contact with the rest of the ship, and certainly nothing more exciting than feeding time for Phlox's menagerie. I wonder how I'm going to survive it.

"Thanks, Hosh. That's real...thoughtful of you." I set the PADD down next to me on the bed, and our little trio once again falls into silence. Time seems to drag on as I can feel their worried gazes on me, but still nobody speaks. I don't know how long we spend sitting there before the doors to sickbay opens, and a pair of footsteps sound moving towards my bed.

"Hoshi. Travis. Good to see you in here, but could we steal the Commander for a few minutes?"

I recognize Captain Archer's voice immediately, but instead of feeling relief that he returned, I'm suddenly put on guard by the undertones of concern and frustration that I hear. My bed is restored to normal as Hoshi rises.

"We'll come see you later, Commander,"Travis says, and squeezes my shoulder again before there's a rustling of fabric that is presumably him getting to his feet.

"Get some rest,"Hoshi adds, then I hear them move away, sickbay doors opening, and closing, theoretically with them on the other side.

A weight settles next to me, and a loud scraping sound is heard as the Captain's companion drags a chair over.

"How're you feeling, Trip?" He's trying way too hard to appear casual, but I see through his disguise rather quickly. Well, I don't actually "see" through it. It's one of those figures of speech that I'm going to have to make an effort to stop using. I can just tell he's upset or concerned about something. I tell him so.

"Cap'n, I know you didn't come here to ask me how I'm doing." I pause, head tilting to the right for a moment. I sniff delicately; the scent of green tea winds its way into my nostrils. "Is that Malcolm with you?"

There's a brief hesitation, then the British officer speaks up with a hint of surprise in his voice. "It is. Can you see me, Trip?"

I snort sarcastically. I don't want to make him feel bad, but it's such a ridiculous question I can't help it. If I could see, does he really expect me to be lying in this bed? I would be out of here so fast I'd be entering Engineering by the time the biobed registered that I was gone. "No, Mal. I used my powerful means of deduction. Now what's goin' on? The truth, if you'd be so kind."

I ordinarily wouldn't have spoken to either of them in such a manner, but this damn condition is shortening my fuse every second that I sit here, staring blindly into space. Though it goes largely without saying, ordinarily the Captain would've reprimanded me for such rudeness. But it seems he has more patience for me when he knows I couldn't find the lav with written directions and a map.

"Trip, we were just down in Engineering."

My previous sarcasm is forgotten and I sit up straighter in bed, suddenly terrified of what he is going to say next. "Is everything all right? What's going on? Jesus, I should be down there!"

A hand closes around my wrist. "You're not going anywhere, Commander." I immediately deflate into my pillow. The Captain feels it necessary to remind me of my rank every so often, whenever I seem to forget that he's the Captain and I'm not. It's like he's telling me that even though I can't see anything, I still have to follow his orders. It's a nasty trick he pulls on me sometimes, whenever he knows I'm beyond reasoning between friends. "There's nothing the matter. At least, nothing with the engines."

My eyes narrow of their own accord. I don't like what he's insinuating, but at this point, I know better than to be snarky. I say nothing, waiting with the pretense of patience for him to continue.

"We were speaking with Rostov." Malcolm picks up on the conversation thread, and I turn to face him, as fruitless as the exercise is. "He says he was working with you before the 'accident.'"

I can hear the air quotations around the word accident, but I know Malcolm too well to picture him miming the gesture. If at all possible, I grow even more suspicious. "Yeah, that's right. He asked for my help with the manifold assembly."

A sudden memory comes to the front of my mind unbidden, the image of Lizzie blowing a kiss at me through the camera lens, and I jerk with the force of it. It's a bizarre sort of flashback; I can almost feel the wetness of tears on my cheek, the tinniness of Rostov's voice coming from the comm panel next to my terminal.

"Commander? Are you all right?"

A different voice speaks up from my right, one that I recognize as Phlox's after a moment of thought. The memory of seeing and listening to Lizzie's message has shaken me up, and I clench my hand around the sheets pooled at my waist to hide their trembling. "Uh, fine. You were sayin', Cap'n?"

Somebody sighs, and I'm suddenly concerned by the fact that I don't hear Phlox move away. Whatever they were talking to Rostov about couldn't be good if the doc was still here. Captain Archer resumes.

"He says you were using a plasma torch..." He trails off, and I picture him pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers, a little tick he has whenever he's stressed. I frown, but before I can say anything, he bursts out, "He said you weren't wearing safety equipment, Trip. He said that you ignored him when he tried to remind you, and that he watched you deliberately increase the intensity of the torch. He said that you would have had to remove the safety protocols to make a flame large enough to overload the thing."

The silence that falls over sickbay is deafening. I sit there for a long minute, my mouth pressed into a thin bloodless line. He thinks I did this to myself? He thinks that I intentionally overloaded a plasma torch, knowing full well what it would do to me, and possibly the warp core? What the hell kind of officer does he think I am? I don't really know what to say. I feel intensely betrayed to learn that he would make such assumptions about me without hearing what I had to say, even after knowing me for so long. That he would belittle my dedication to this mission so thoroughly by implying I was putting it in danger by trying to commit suicide.

"You saying you believe I tried to off myself?" I'm being crude, and the iciness that has leaked into my voice makes it sound like someone else's. But I don't care on either count. It hurts that the Captain would think so little of me, that hurt overwhelms me, ignites a fire deep within my being. And suddenly nothing seems more important than transferring that hurt to others. "You think I would risk the whole fucking ship like that?"

"Trip, I-"

"No, you don't need to explain. You obviously don't think very much of me if you would take the word of an _ensign _over your best friend."

Malcolm obviously thinks of himself as the voice of reason, because he breaks in saying, "We didn't believe him, Trip. So I checked the security cameras. Everything Rostov said is backed by that data."

My mouth hangs open. Truth is I don't know what to say. It all seems so ridiculous, to think I would have such blatant disregard for my own well-being. But despite my anger and indignation about the whole thing, I _can _remember taking the torch from Rostov without putting on goggles, or a face shield, or a pair of gloves, any of which would've limited the damage I find myself dealing with now. I can't remember, however, erasing the safety protocols, and overloading the torch myself. Certainly I couldn't be that stupid. But Malcolm says they have the proof on tape. And he's never given me a reason to doubt him, or even suspect him of lying. I'm not even sure he's capable of it. So that leaves me with one question: What the hell was I doing?

"I...I'm not suicidal, Cap'n. I don't want to die." My words are wavering slightly, but I know I can't afford to take the minute it would take to calm myself. "I can't explain why I did what I did, but I wasn't trying to kill myself."

I sit up in the bed, rising to my knees, and reaching with both hands to grab what I hope is the front of his uniform. "You've gotta believe me."

I feel his hands settle on my shoulders. "Trip, I've never had any siblings. I can't even imagine how much losing one would hurt. But if you were having trouble, if you were struggling, you could've come to me. To any of us."

I fall back onto my heels, with my hands still clenched around the thick material of his uniform. He doesn't believe me. He thinks I meant it. Of course, he has no reason to believe what I'm saying, besides his own belief in my strength of character. And if he thinks I'm suicidal, how much stock is he going to put in that? But doesn't he see the contradiction in his words? He knows how close I was to Lizzie, how badly I wanted someone to answer for her death. How could he turn his back on all that, and assume that I would, too?

"Isn't it possible that somebody tampered with the torch? Erased the safety protocols with the intention that it would overload?" It's far out in left field, I know, to think that someone onboard would be capable of such an act, and my tone lacks the conviction it would take to sway their belief in my direction. But I'm getting desperate; nothing seems more important than making sure these three people are confident in my mental state.

"We're checking it out. And rest assured, Trip, if that's the case, then we'll find out who did it." Malcolm's attempt to comfort me has the opposite effect.

"You don't think that will happen though, do you, Mal? You've already decided I'm a headcase." His silence speaks louder than any words could. "Answer me this, Malcolm. If I really wanted to kill myself, why would I want to take out everybody else with me? You know as well as I do that we're damn lucky that explosion didn't ignite the plasma stream, and blow us all to kingdom come. Why would I risk all my friends like that? Why wouldn't I just step out an airlock? Or raid Phlox's med cabinet? Or take away Chef's knives? There are a million ways to commit suicide that wouldn't risk anyone else."

Apparently, my words also have the opposite effect of what they were intended for.

"Do you think about that often, Commander?"

I'd forgotten the doctor was still there, but his question reignites everything that had been cooling inside me. "Sure I do, doc. In between organizing duty shifts, solving the thousand and one engineering problems on board this ship, making sure my people don't get bored out of their minds, and what little sleep I've managed to get, it's all I can think about. _Goddamit! _Do you all really think so little of me?"

My hands fall away from the Captain's uniform, and clench into fists so tight my impossibly short fingernails bite painfully into the palms of my hands. This is getting really out of hand. Intellectually, I know that I'm blowing everything out of proportion, that they're all actually on my side. But I'm _really _upset, and none of that is managing to get through the hurt.

A subtle alarm goes off above my head, likely an indicator of my runaway heartbeat.

"Captain, we'll have to conclude this another time. He's getting far too stressed."

"Damn right I am. You don't want me to wander off and kill myself, do you?" I've just crossed the line, and I know it. If they were wavering in their belief of my state of mind before, I'm sure that comment just cemented their concerns. I allow my eyes to close, and fall back against my pillow of my own accord. I can feel tears burning in the backs of my eyes at the sheer frustration of the whole conversation, and I turn on to my side to face away from them. Someone pulls the sheet out from underneath me, and covers me with it gently.

"Get some sleep, Trip. We'll talk about it later." I don't doubt that we will. But it's not going to change anything. I feel the Captain squeeze my foot gently, then the two of them move away slowly.

After a few minutes, Phlox speaks up next to me. "I trust I can leave you, Mr. Tucker?"

I sigh, but don't open my eyes. The threat of tears is still close, and I don't want to open the floodgates. If I start, I'm not sure I could stop. "I'm not going anywhere. I didn't mean that. I was just..."

I trail off, because I'm not entirely sure he believes me anymore, and I've lost the energy to continue anyways. He pats my shoulder, pulls the sheet around me a little tighter. I listen to him walk away, begin to tend to his animals. I'm more scared now than I was when I first woke up after the accident. But I'm not entirely sure it was an accident anymore. I mean, security cameras are real hard to tamper with, and who would want to do that anyway? And if I do on some level want to kill myself, (though the idea seems so ridiculous I can hardly even think it) what's to stop me from trying again? If I had no knowledge of overloading the torch earlier, at what point would I lose awareness of what I was doing? I pull the sheet tightly under my chin, but I know that sleep is a long ways away, if it will come at all.

...tbc...


	4. Chapter Four

A/N: Okay, here's the next installment. I thought I'd start replying to individual reviews, since I love it when other authors do it for me. So here goes.

Ocean: Thank you for your kind words. I have to say that I'm not consciously trying to write it from Trip's mind. I'm just imagining myself in his shoes. If that works, all the better for me!

RoaringMice: The answers are coming up soon. To be honest, I haven't really worked out exactly what I want to happen. I have a vague idea, but I don't usually know until I type it out.

Luna: My friend's cat is named Luna. Hehe. That's just a pointless little fact I'm sure will not improve your life any, but I thought I'd share it anyway. As for your comments, all the answers will come soon. Until then, bear with me.

Rinne: You are a fantastic beta, and I really appreciate your support of my writing. I just couldn't wait to post this chapter! I think it's one of my favourites, and I selfishly wanted to share it.

Gabi2305: I agree. Archer is an idiot. But don't worry; he redeems himself many times over in a few chapters. I think he just got a little caught up in the situation. ;p

Tata: Your wish is granted. Here is the next chapter. :)

JadziaKathryn: You'll find that there are many twists to this story. At least, I hope there are. I love writing first person point of view when something tragic happens, but like you, I didn't want it to be a cliche. Hopefully I did it okay.

MikiNare: I'm so glad you fell in love with him! I was worrying I was the only one that happened to! I appreciate you told me that, I loved hearing it. Please continue reading, I hope I don't disappoint you.

I want to thank you all one more time. You've been fantastic, and make this writing so much more fun. Is that proper grammar? I guess it doesn't matter. Enjoy!

* * *

When I wake from a largely restless sleep, it's to what I think is an empty room. Sickbay is not silent, and I'm fairly certain the noises I have been hearing are not from an actual visitor, but from the large amount of animals who call this place home. 

I blew it. There's really no other way to say it. Instead of proving my sanity through carefully worded arguments, I managed to achieve the contrary by getting paniced and emotional. I wonder how many people on board know the specifics about what happened. Knowing my luck, Starfleet had already been informed that the Chief Engineer of their flagship was allegedly suicidal. But I'm not, am I? The same old arguments and questions from my last waking minutes come back, and I'm left to rehash everything I'd already been over three times. If I am suicidal, certainly I would be the first to know. Of course, if Malcolm has me on tape doing what everyone says I was doing, then it's really a moot point, isn't it? I mean, unless this is a huge conspiracy to get me off the ship. Tampering with my torch, creating some footage on the security cameras. I almost laugh at the absurdity of it all. But then again it is the most lucid thought I've had in hours.

I sit up in bed suddenly as something occurrs to me. Phlox must've hooked me up to some IV liquids, because even though I've had very little to drink in the past day, I have to pee like a racehorse. This poses a momumental problem, given my current state. I close my eyes softly, try to envision a mental blueprint of sickbay. I know roughly the area I'm in. Well, roughly as in I'm in one of the six biobeds in the room, although I'm not quite sure which one. I know the lav is to my left, right next to the decon chambers, but it might as well be back on Earth for all the good it would do me.

I slide off the bed carefully, but startle myself by landing on a boot. A boot? What the hell is a lone boot doing in sickbay?

"Trip?"

Oh. The boot is on a foot, which happens to belong to a certain armoury officer who is in sickbay. Malcom's voice sounds thick, as though he has a great wad of peanut butter stuck to the roof of his mouth. This is highly unlikely though, I'm sure peanut butter is far too low class for a man of Malcolm's dignity. Besides, he's probably allergic to it.

"What are you doing here, Malcolm?"

I try to concentrate on the conversation at hand, and not at the fact that if I don't cross my legs, I'm going to do something I haven't done since I was in preschool.

"I...I must've dozed off. I only meant to be here for a minute."

I replay the sentence carefully in my mind, but decide he's being sincere enough. Besides, as I may have mentioned before, I don't think Mal is capable of treachery. Unless it's ordered of him, of course.

"What time is it?" I have taken to bouncing on the balls of my feet to distract myself from my near bursting bladder. I'm sure there's a bedpan around here somewhere, but I'll be damned if I'm gonna use one of those in front of my subordinate.

"0300. Are you all right? Why are you dancing like that?"

I still my movements, wonder for a minute if I can trust him. Of course, he was stranded with me in the shuttlepod that time. He knows how intensely frustrating it can be to have to use the facilities when they are none. Or you just can't find them. I sigh, slump my shoulders forward. "I have to...y'know...pee."

To my greatest surprise, I can hear no humour in his voice when he says, "All right, then. Shall I escort you?"

I feel him grab hold of my elbow lightly, and before I can say boo, he's leading me away from the bed in the general direction I was headed to anyway. I know Phlox wouldn't be cruel enough to leave something out in the middle of the floor for me to trip on, and even if he did, Malcolm is a much better friend than to let me fall over something. But I still take tiny shuffling steps anyways. After a lifetime of relying on my sight to get me around, I'm suddenly left floundering when it's gone.

"Here we are,"he says, and a second later my hip bumps against something I later find to be the doorframe. "You'll be all right?"

I shoot him what I hope is a deadpan look. "Yeah, I can take it from here." I wonder idley what he would have done if I had've said no. I hear him begin to close the door, but call out his name to stop him before he can.

"What is it, Trip?"

I frown for a minute, fighting a losing battle against the blush rising up in my cheeks. "What am I wearing?"

Again he surprises me by saying in a completely sincere tone, "Hospital issue scrub pants. You don't have a shirt on."

I don't want to belittle his help that much by pointing out the obviousness of that last bit. He has helped me greatly, and somehow I know I can trust him to not pass this on. The last thing I want the rest of the ship knowing is how I needed an escort to use the facilities.

He closes the door behind him, leaving me to my own devices. It isn't really as difficult as I had feared, but a part of me worries I left a big mess on the floor for Phlox to clean up. Actually, truth is a part of me _wishes _I left a big mess on the floor for Phlox to clean up. I am still really, really bitter about being sedated.

Malcolm meets me on the other side of the door, and escorts me back to the biobed. This time, I remain sitting. I've been laying down for far too long, and the risk of bedsores is starting to play prominently in my mind.

For a long few minutes, we sit silently facing each other. Fat lot of good it does me, though. Finally, Malcolm breaks the quiet.

"How are your hands?"

I flex the aforementioned appendages with little difficulty. "Pretty good, I guess. Either they're starting to heal, or Phlox has me drenched in pain meds. I'm not quite sure which."

I hear a sound not unlike a sigh, and realize Malcolm is laughing. He is one of the only people on board that I know of who can laugh without making a sound. I used to find it funny, but now it's just unnerving. My chin drops down to my chest, and I stare sightlessly into my lap.

"Look, Trip,"Malcolm begins, and I find myself fervently hoping for a tactical alert to stop this conversation before it starts. I'm just beginning to forget what happened earlier, and now I fear Malcolm is going to bring it up again. "About what happened earlier..." Sometimes I despise being right all the time. "It's really not fair how we brought it up, and I'm sorry. You were just beginning to understand what had happened to you, and we dropped that bomb in your lap. I don't blame you if you're angry, but I really regret the way things happened. The Captain does too."

I frown, thinking that one over. He's a better man than me to be able to apologize for something like that. The fact that he is here at all confirms what he just said. But the absense of Captain Archer, the man I thought was my friend, is nagging me, like the beginning of a toothache. I wonder if the Captain really does feel some regret, or if Mal just included him in the apology to take the pressure off himself. Eventually, I nodd.

"Thanks, Mal. I'm sorry too. I definitely could've handled it better." I'm not entirely sure that I could've, but I figure it's the right thing to say.

Quietude descends over us once again. The one thing that I've noticed above all others is that when I'm with Malcolm, there's never a pressing need to say anything, to fill the gaps in conversation. I think it's probably just because we both talk so much on the job, that when we finally get a chance to sit down we only want to relax. Many a silent, but completely comfortable meal as been eaten in the mess hall between us.

I settle back against the pillow, and close my eyes softly. It gets to me after a while, the neverending inky blackness in front of my eyes. It's disorienting to not have any points of perspective, and if I'm not careful it makes me nauseous. At least with my eyes closed I can pretend my sight will still be there when I open them.

I hear a creak next to my bed, then a hand falls on my shoulder and squeezes gently. He's leaving. He's put in his obligatory amount of time, and now he's leaving. But I don't want him to. Suddenly the worst thing I can imagine is being left alone in this room, in this infernal darkness. I reach out blindly to grab onto him, but he's beyond my armspan.

"Malcolm!"

I hate the plaintive, desperate tone that sounds so different from my own, but it seems to do the trick. I hear a pause in his footsteps.

"Do you...um...do y'think y'could stay? Unless you got something more important..."

Footsteps near my bed again, there's another creak as presumably he settles back into the chair. "No, I don't have anything more important. I just thought you wanted to get some sleep."

I breath a sigh of relief, and allow myself to relax. I've never been the type of person desperate for company around the clock. Actually, it was much the opposite. Growing up in a house with three other siblings, I learned fast to appreciate privacy and alone time. But none of that matters anymore. I can actually feel my pulse racing at the mere thought of sitting in this bed with no link to the outside world.

"No, I think I've got enough sleep to last me a week. I just...I don't wanna..."

I trail off as another creak sounds next to me, then Malcolm speaks up, closer to me this time, "It's all right, Trip. I understand. I wouldn't want to either."

I smile shakily. It's good to know I've got at least one friend who can read my mind without making me put everything into words. And three years ago, I never would've guessed that friend would be Malcolm. I've never been more pleased to be proven wrong.

Captain Archer comes back about a half an hour later. The only reason I know it's him is that I can practically hear Malcolm snap to attention beside me. Almost four years with the same Captain and the man still acts like a first year cadet getting his initial peak at the top brass.

"How ya doing, Trip?" The Captain sounds overly jovial, and he grabs my foot again, both of which I take as bad signs. The first time he visited me in sickbay I found out I was blind for an indeterminate amount of time. The second time he accused me of trying to kill myself. I wonder what I'm in store for now.

I frown a little bit, but manage to keep the sarcasm out of my tone when I say, "Jes' fine, Cap'n. Well, considering...y'know."

There's a short, uncomfortable silence, then he taps my shin with his finger, and says, "That's good to hear." I wonder how he can possibly sound so upbeat when I'm laying in this bed with my very future undecided. If it were him in this bed...No, let's not go there. I don't like to think how I would react if it were him blinded in a freak accident. And that's all it was. An accident.

I tune back into the conversation taking place over my head. Malcolm and Captain Archer are discussing some kind of upgrade to the targeting software. I'd like to add in my own two cents, but I lack the energy it would require to speak up. They continue on for several more minutes, before Malcolm excuses himself to head up for his bridge shift. He promises to come see me on his lunch break, but I try to tell him it won't be necessary. I want to tell him that I'm not a child, that I can entertain myself even without sight, but the words don't come. Instead all I can do is thank him gruffly, again hating myself for the damn neediness.

A creak sounds next to the bed, and then a hand grasps my forearm lightly. I'm pretty sure it's the Captain, but I wouldn't bet money on my certainty.

"How are you really doing, Trip?"

I sigh harshly. As much as I hate to admit it somedays, he does know me fairly well. Of course he would know that I would hold back. Even in front of Malcolm, the man I now consider my closest friend on board, save maybe the Captain. Despite my rumoured quick fuse, I've always been a little uncomfortable expressing my feelings. An old girlfriend, psych major at the time, of all things, told me once that I make a pretense of being open and easy to read because I experience certain emotions so close to the surface. The ones that really matter, that really make connections with people, I keep close to the chest. Kind of a defense mechanism, I guess. Hide the real me behind a carefully constructed facsimile. It's the reason she gave for breaking up with me. She said that she couldn't be with a man who had worse problems than the patients she saw everyday. I wonder for a minute what she's doing now-a-days before remembering that Captain Archer is still waiting for an answer.

I clear my throat, hoping that he assumed I was sorting through my feelings rather than getting nostalgic over a girl who made the best chocolate chip pancakes this side of our galaxy. "Um...I don't know, Cap'n." My voice cracks on the last bit, and he squeezes my wrist in a sympathetic gesture. "I mean, Phlox could be wrong, right? This could be permanent."

I imagine him shaking his head emphatically. "Phlox has gone over everything three times, Trip. I doubt he would be wrong about something so important."

I nod, but I'm not convinced. It's not that I doubt the capabilities of our good doctor. There is just far too much riding on this for me.

"How do your hands feel?"

As I did for Malcolm not an hour ago, I lift one hand off the sheets and give it a good flex for the Captain's benefit. "They don't hurt. That's a good sign, right?"

He chuckles softly, and removes his own hand from my wrist. "I spoke with Phlox earlier. There's only an hour left in your sentence."

I perk up at that. I had been doing a lot of thinking while confined to this bed, and I had decided that the only way to make this week go by at a reasonable speed is to have something to distract me. And there is nothing that can hold my attention that resides in this sickbay. Except maybe the doctor, but I can hardly expect him to spend all day everyday entertaining me. Truth is I'm kind of hoping to get back to work. A lot of the things I do down in Engineering are instinctually anyway. I don't need my sight to do most of it. But I'm not about to let the Captain in on that. He wouldn't allow it. I guess I'm figuring that it would be easier to get forgiveness than permission.

"Oh yeah?"

He's quiet for a minute, then he says softly, "It's not a good idea, Trip."

I decide feigning ignorance would be a good idea. "What's not a good idea?"

"Whatever it is you're planning. Don't think I don't know you that well by now. You've got your scheming face on."

My hand clenches unconsciously around the sheets. I don't want to talk about this now. I don't want to hear him telling me that I can't go down to Engineering. I don't really want to talk about anything, but I know it's likely he's not going to take a hike anytime soon. You'd think being Captain of the first warp capable starship would be more time consuming.

"I really don't know what you're talking about." I grate it out through clenched teeth, hoping that he's going to get the point. He's not a stupid man; a person can't get to where he is without being able to notice things. If he doesn't figure this one out I'm going to seriously consider consulting Phlox about a headscan.

He sighs audibly, probably so I realize just how trying I'm being. I do realize, though. It just doesn't bother me.

"Look, Jon. I really think I should get some sleep. Y'know? I'm really beat."

There's a long, drawn out silence, then I feel his hand on my arm again. "Okay, Trip,"he says, and he's gone all quiet again. "Whatever you like. I'll, uh, drop by later."

I nodd, but don't respond. There's nothing for a long minute, then I hear a pair of footsteps walking away from me. The doors to sickbay open, then close again. And I'm alone again.

Malcolm and Hoshi come back at the end of my last hour. I'm glad someone did; as hard as it was going to be to accept the help I desperately need, it would be even harder to negotiate my way down the corridors. Granted, I could probably get to my quarters just fine on my own, but I don't feel like trying. To try could mean to fail, and I'm not sure my bruised sense of self could handle it.

Malcolm seems to understand the beating my ego has taken in the past few days, and I don't even recognize that he's trying to help until a minute or two later.

"We were heading over to the messhall to grab a bite. Do you want to come with us?"

It's a pretty tall order. I haven't left sickbay since the accident, haven't been in the company of the general crew for days. I wouldn't be able to see them staring at me, but chances are I wouldn't have to. That kind of attention you can feel.

The question hangs uncomfortably in the air while I think about it. I haven't eaten yet this afternoon, more likely than not Phlox's own brand of encouragement. I know it's late too, so the mess hall will probably be nearly empty. It wouldn't be so bad, I think. Besides, it will be nice to get away from the prepackaged meals I've been forced to eat.

"Can I get a shower first?"

Someone takes hold of my elbow, and rather insistently helps me off the biobed. "I would discourage it, Commander. A shower would impede the healing process."

I frown, try to dig my heels into the deck plating, but the hand on my elbow isn't very forgiving. I don't want to go out there at all, but especially not when smelling as rancid as I most certainly do.

But the first hand is joined by another on my other side, then Hoshi's voice says, "You look fine, Commander. Don't worry about it."

I would like to tell her it's not my looks I'm worried about, but if she hasn't complained by now I must not stink as bad as I think I do. My stomach chooses that inopportune moment to growl loudly, exclaiming that in no uncertain terms will it be denied some of Chef's fried catfish for another two days. I sigh, and simply allow my "helpers" to continue leading me.

I hear the doors to sickbay open in front of us, and I swear I can feel a difference in the air as we step out in the corridor. Seems...larger, almost. Does that make sense? Probably not. But I can't explain it any better than that. It just feels more encompassing than sickbay.

For their part, and likely some half-assed attempt to make me feel involved, Hoshi and Malcolm are discussing whatever happened on the bridge today, surely a conversation they practiced on the ten minute trip down here. Most of it goes over my head though, partially because I haven't been up there in two days, but more because I just can't bring myself to give a damn.

We pass a couple of crewman on the way. They don't say anything; the only way I know is I can hear their footsteps slow as they near us, then speed up once again behind us. It should be mortifying, knowing they're trying to avoid me like that, but at least this way I can pretend I don't notice them.

"We're almost there,"Hoshi says quietly, and maybe I feel bad for underestimating her. Apparently I don't hide my discomfort as well as I think I do. But instead of comfort, the thought of sitting in the mess hall fills me dread. I know perfectly well that at this time of night, we would likely be alone. But that provides no solace. It doesn't mean someone won't get hungry at an unspecified time. I don't want the crew to see me like this, and I especially don't want to hear their wasteful and useless platitudes. This time when I put on the brakes, it's much more effective.

"I...I don't think I can do this,"I blurt out. I take a step backwards and then another one, then the wall of the corrider is solid at my back. The strength leaves my knees in a rush, and I slide down the wall, landing hard on the floor with my knees tight against my chest. Someone's hand lands on my shoulder, as presumably they kneel beside me.

"Trip, what's the problem?" It's Malcolm speaking to me, but I can barely hear him over the roaring in my ears. This can't be happening. Not here, not now. Not after so many years...I take a great heaving breath, scrub at my face with my still bandaged hands.

"I don't wanna go in there,"I tell him, and maybe I'm speaking a little too loudly, but God help me I can't lower my voice. The very thought of going in there, facing the crew...My breath catches in my throat, and suddenly there's nothing. I reach out blindly, grab onto someone's uniform, but I can't seem to catch my breath. There's pressure on the back of my neck, and after a moment of weak resistance, I give in and rest my forehead on my knees. Breathing is a little easier in this position, and the noise in my ears as quieted a little, but I can still hear the harsh gasps of my breath in the otherwise quiet. I realize then that Malcolm's speaking to me, just like he did when I woke up the second time and panicked. It takes a few minutes, but eventually, the calm droning quality of his voice gets through the fuzz in my ears. My throat opens, and a sweet rush of oxygen fills my lungs.

"Take it easy,"Malcolm is saying. "Hoshi just ran to get Dr. Phlox. Take it easy and he'll be here in a minute."

He's rubbing my back in circular motions, and it's feels really good. Solid, like I'm not minutes away from floating right off the goddam deck plating. Breathing is still difficult, but thank God it's not coming with a gasp and a wheeze.

"I don't...don't need a doctor,"I manage to spit out, even though my voice is really hoarse. I picture Malcolm's puzzled face in my mind, and add, "It's just a...a panic attack. Had 'em before. Just need a minute."

"You have panic attacks?"

He sounds surprised, like maybe until this minute he thought I was invincible. I think it's odd that Malcolm of all people, who has probably seen me at my worst more often than anyone else, can believe something like that. I thought I was over the attacks for the most part. The doctors back home had always said I would grow out of them, become more secure in myself and my abilities. According to them, the panic was fed by my own self-doubt. Well, that's not the case now.

I've had two on board so far, not including this moment. The first was when that creature had a bunch of us in Cargo Bay Two. I guess that one can't really be counted though, since Captain Archer was there to talk me down. The second was full blown panic. Right after we heard about the Xindi attack. I was in the shower, of all places, when it finally occurred to me what my baby sister might have gone through. That time, I was alone, and I eventually passed out from lack of oxygen. Woke up ten minutes later, with a nasty bump of my forehead.

"Just gimme a minute,"I say, but even as the words are coming out I hear a couple of pairs of footsteps hurrying towards us.

"Trip? Are you okay?" That's the Captain, probably belongs to the arm that's thrown across my shoulders.

"What happened?"Dr. Phlox, the metallic thump that follows is predictably his medkit.

"I'm sorry it took so long. I went as fast as I could." That's Hoshi. I spare a moment of thought wondering why they didn't just call the Doctor, before thinking that maybe I should answer their questions.

"I, uh..." I don't want to explain the situation in front of Hoshi, much less the crewmen that have inevitably gathered around us. A senior staff member, white as a ghost, sitting in the corridor and surrounded by officers is quite a sight.

The Captain apparently senses my reluctance, and says, "Hoshi, we've got it from here. Thanks for coming so fast."

Thankfully she doesn't question or object to her dismissal. I wait but a moment to hear her departing footsteps.

Captain Archer squeezes my shoulder. "It's just the four of us, Trip. Can you tell me what happened?"

I take a breath. I've never been comfortable admitting to these attacks, especially now that I'm in such an important position. Who wants a chief engineer who loses consciousness when pressed too hard? But I've never been able ignore a question from the Captain. Besides, I've already got the blindness going against me. What's one more black mark on my record?

"It was a panic attack,"I say quietly, staring sightlessly into my hands. "I thought about being with the rest of the crew, and I freaked out."

There's a long, heavy silence, then Doctor Phlox says, "I agree with this assessment, Captain. All physiological signs point to extreme alarm."

"Do you get these often?"

I frown at that question. There really isn't an answer that will allay concern. Having your first panic attack at the age of thirty two is pretty significant, but so is discovering your chief engineer has been suffering from them his whole life. I figure the truth would be slightly easier to deal with, so I sigh. "Not really. I almost had one on board a few years ago, but before that not since my teens."

Another silence follows my reply, then Archer asks, "That web monster in Cargo Bay two. Right?"

I nodd, hoping that he's looking at me and I don't have to speak. I can hear the general sounds of Phlox playing around with his scanner, then he says, "There's seems to be no lasting damage. Do you feel well enough to stand, Commander?"

I'm pushing myself up before he's finished talking. As always after one of these, I feel weak and tired, like I haven't eaten in a couple of days. I'm sure it had something to do with not even oxygen reaching the body, but I've never really cared enough to figure exactly what.

My arms are taken in two seperate hands, as though the owners of the hands believe I can't stand on my own. At the same time as I'm annoyed by their help, I'm grateful for the support. "Do you feel up to going in there now?"

I sigh again, look in the general direction of Malcolm. If ever I've hoped for telepathic communication, it's never been as strong as now. But lately, he seems to be the one who reads me best. As if in proof of my thoughts, he removes his hand from my elbow, and a moment later, I hear a pair of doors slide open. He returns to my side, hand on my shoulder, and says quietly, "T'Pol's the only one in there."

As with Hoshi earlier, I'm sure he meant that as some kind of comfort. Problem is, I haven't seen T'Pol since before the accident, when she told me she would have to stop our neuropressure sessions. The very thought of her seeing me like this, weak as a kitten and shaking like a leaf, almost makes me feel worse than I did before the attack reached its peak. Captain Archer is here, though, and so is Phlox, and I don't really feel like explaining the dissolvement of my relationship with T'Pol, if it could be called that.

I nodd briskly. "All right. I am getting kind of hungry."

I move forward with Mal on one side, Captain Archer on the other, and presumably Phlox hovering somewhere behind me. I hear the doors open again, and in one step, they're closing behind me. The smell of freshly baked pecan pie washes over me, and even as my stomach's grumbling, I'm frowning. I know then that Chef has been persuaded into baking a pie. Again I'm split in two directions; on one hand, I'm thankful for the interference the Captain surely provided. On the other hand, I'm annoyed as hell that he feels he has to. But right now, I'm just too damn hungry to complain either way.

Malcolm carefully steers me into a chair, and I sit with little difficulty. The good thing about being blind in that situation, is I don't have to worry about where not to look to avoid T'Pol. I don't see her anywhere, so maybe my sub-conscious believes she's not around. Unfortunately, she speaks at that very moment.

"Commander Tucker. It's good to see you well."

I avoid answering the same in a considerably more sarcastic tone. At least one beneficial thing will come out of this injury; my self-control is getting much needed exercise. I direct my non-gaze to the section of room I'm pretty sure she's sitting in, and say, "Thank you, Sub-Commander. I'm a little worse for wear, but the good doc insists it's nothing permanent."

"Pecan pie and iced tea okay, Trip?"Malcolm asks me. I nodd at him, wait patiently for T'Pol to say something further, even though something tells me I'll be waiting a long time. If anyone of my posse thinks it funny that we're suddenly on a title-only basis, they don't speak up. Thankfully.

There's a soft clatter as Malcolm sets some dishes down in front of me, and gently pushes a fork in my hand. When I first learned of this blindness, the only thing that occurred to me was it might not be permanent, and I would lose my career. It didn't even come to mind how difficult day to day life was going to be. Exhibit A: trying to eat a plate of pie when I couldn't even see the table. I lifted my hand, probing around in what I hoped to be an inconspicuous manner. After two passes, my fingers found my sought after booty, and I hurry to stick my fork in it, to mark it so I won't lose it again.

T'Pol's gone quiet in her little corner, and I wonder if maybe she's as uncomfortable around me as I am around her. But in the end, I suppose it doesn't matter. We'll work it out eventually, and if we don't, we're professionals. We can handle it.

I know this is going to be hard, whether or not it ever goes away, but I know that so long as I have these people around me, my friends and in some cases extended family, it won't be impossible.

* * *

Geez, I don't think I've ever written a fourth chapter. I must be maturing! Haha.  
As usual, please let me know what you think. There's more coming! 


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